


Who needs a Flaming Sword when you have an Umbrella?

by Kaz3313



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Stabbing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-21
Updated: 2019-10-21
Packaged: 2020-12-27 08:11:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21115553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kaz3313/pseuds/Kaz3313
Summary: Time and time again Aziraphale has been saved by Crowley. This time, though, Crowley needs saving.





	Who needs a Flaming Sword when you have an Umbrella?

Crowley was undoubtedly cool; he wore the latest clothes (though in a manner no other person would put together. That is not to say it looked bad), wore shades (even when he didn't need to), had the best car that Heaven,Hell, Earth, and the Galaxy beyond had ever seen, and he also had a certain sway to his hips he'd call swag (his angel would say 'boneless is the best term, my dear'). However sometimes Crowley was put in situations that were, to put it politely, very uncool.

Crowley was undoubtedly Aziraphale's knight in shining armor, even if he had no intention of ever riding a horse again. This was proven countless times over the last six thousand years. Aziraphale would place himself into a tight situation (debatable whether intentional or not) and Crowley, in the nick of time, would show up to sweep his angel off his feet. This would be followed by a lovely meal, a chat about safety, and maybe even ridiculous amounts of alcohol. However, in very rare situations, Crowley is not playing the part as the savior; rather he is the damsel in loads of distress. 

Crowley had undoubtedly left Hell. He proved to any questioning demon that his loyalties lie elsewhere when he was on team "Stop-Apocalypse" (which won, if anyone couldn't guess). Every demon in Hell and every angel in Heaven knew of the two traitors. However, Hell had a way of creeping up on you when you least expect it. 

Crowley was sitting in his chair (not his throne otherwise this whole experience might've been avoided) contemplating getting up to yell at his plants and he felt a blade press against his back. It was not any blade, judging by its sting it was forged in Hell's biggest furnace by a demon who had a knack for keeping it hot permanently. 

"It's rude to walk in without knocking," Crowley had scarcely finished saying before the blade dug into his back. It was merely the tip but his skin blossomed a crimson streak. Not only that but the knife (what he assumes to be a knife as it seemed too small to be a sword) steady in his back burned like a fire poker. He would've loved to say he didn't even twitch in reaction to his new wound but that would be a blanket lie as he sucked in a sharp quick breath.

Crowley had always been quick to come up with plans but this moment his mind just raced into broken thoughts. Panic easily confused imagination and fear made too many second guesses for any reckless plan that snuck out to pass.So his thoughts frayed further and further the more he realized that things were going downhill fast.

"I heard you were supposed to be a clever traitor, even had Lord of the Flies tricked, but really? Sitting with your back to the door? Rookie Demon mistake," The Demon, which Crowley doesn't recognize, sneered. "And mistakes are always exploited to the fullest," With that the knife was plunged further in and Crowley let out more than a sharp breath.

Aziraphale hardly ever showed up to Crowley's but for some ineffable reason he felt the need to walk there. He tried to, at first, blame it on the good weather but it had begun to rain. He then tried to reason it was because of the bad weather but, as that made little sense, he found it easier just to say naught. And no matter what would he admit that the thought of 'something is going to go terribly wrong' crept into his mind.

Not until he walked into the flat and heard a scream slice the silence like a steak knife cutting cheese.

Aziraphale rushed into the room not a second thought that the only weapon to his name he'd given away centuries ago. His vision turned scarlet as he saw the situation at hand.

He hardly would use wrath to describe his usual behavior, out of the sins he had to admit gluttony suited him far more (though he'd also argue that none of the seven applied to him or Crowley and furthermore they were all highly misunderstood), but he'd make an exception at this moment. Eyes that had not been opened since his last battle viewed the minimalistic flat around them. They took in the tiny details, like the auras and the atoms, as well as the bigger ones, the demon with a knife jammed into his back and the assumed culprit whom was laughing something wicked. His eyes landed back to his demon and softened just for a moment. 

He then saw the pool of blood that had formed on the chair and the wrath flared up once more.

Aziraphale gripped the item tighter in his hand, an umbrella still damp from the storm outside, and held it akin to how one would wield a sword. In a millisecond flames licked his finger tips but never once pained him. 

The demon must've felt the presence, or the sudden heat, and glanced behind him. He stiffened, his laughter died in his throat, and his eyes grew wide, even watering slightly.

"I-I," He backed away but Aziraphale, quicker then one could process seeing, had already gotten over to him, the flames just brushing against his neck. The Principality said nothing using voice but the demon retreated, letting himself sink through the ground, without hesitation.

"And don't come back," Aziraphale said to the floor with all the venom he could muster but soon let himself relax his shoulders.

Fighting completely avoided, at least for now. 

He approached Crowley and his heart twisted. He hadn't moved from the chair nor reached to attempt to remove the dagger. Instead he sat, trembling, with his sunglasses fallen to the bridge of his nose and his eyes squeezed tightly shut. 

"My dear boy," Aziraphale said and the flame in his hand softened. The fire no longer licked the air with rage but rather love filled it's warmth.

"Oh, angel," Crowley's voice cracked and he could feel shame rise to his cheeks. How would his angel react to him so...vulnerable? He didn't dare open his eyes.

"I think, I was good at playing the, err, James Bond guy you like so much? Coming in at the last minute," In spite of everything, and because Crowley hadn't made any snide remark yet, Aziraphale tried to add lightheartedness to the atmosphere.

Instead of replying in a similar tone Crowley nodded his head and gave a small pathetic whimper. A whimper that took ahold of him and transformed into a sob.

Aziraphale was there, the umbrella which was aflame but had yet to burn anything by his side in case of more intruders, sitting near and carefully tended to Crowley's needs.

A true gentleman knight.


End file.
